My reflection, dance the ghost with me
by TheDistorted
Summary: In the aftermath of the Cold War, Ivan and Alfred are struggling to redefine their relation as well as their respective identities. Contains slight RussiaxAmerica.
1. reflections

Soo, this takes place at some point in the early 1990s. The meeting in the beginning is not supposed to represent any actual event, I JUST HAD TO START SOMEWHERE

Also, you may want to know that pretty much all characters come across as somewhat OOC, with Alfred being more or less serious for the most part, Ivan not being a complete lunatic and the nations in general being considered with power politics quite a bit. Or I don't know, maybe I'm just imagining things. This just isn't exactly lulzy, that's probably all I'm trying to say.

Hints of Russia/America, I guess.

OH and I don't actually own Hetalia.

* * *

><p>They have met increasingly often throughout the past few months, and the excitement of having such a large number of guests over has decidedly worn off. Alfred watches warily as the other nations begin to drop in, some cheerful and apparently with no more urgent concern in mind than to check on what kind of food is being provided (His house, his choice – seriously, will they ever stop bitching about hamburgers?), others stern and reserved, paying strong attention to formalities even when Francis and Gilbert are making inappropriate but admittedly funny noises all the way through their greeting rituals.<p>

He is glad to see Arthur, who occasionally seems to feel a little lost nowadays amidst the others, actually-but-not-quite belonging to the European nations seated next to each other, but inexplicably unsatisfied with the overall state of affairs. Ivan is being his usual, opaquely threatening self, lurking in a corner and watching the others in what he probably deems to be a particularly stealthy manner but what is actually a downright glare. A more sensitive observer than Alfred might have felt intimidated and confused by the chaotic swirl of voices that gradually unfolds in the conference hall, but Alfred has not only grown used to tolerating it, he actually feels accustomed to watch over it. He immediately notices when Ludwig enters, the overall atmosphere growing ever so slightly more concentrated almost by default, the German acting as a kind of instant, non-verbal reminder that they have not come here to have dinner together and maybe watch a film later on.

Eventually, everyone has settled down. Alfred finds his mind wandering off almost instantly, the relatively calm debates providing a pleasant background hum to his vague daydreams. He forces himself to listen for a few moments each time someone else starts to talk, but nothing serious seems to be part of today's agenda.

"So, we all agree on the issue?" Damnit. Alfred looks around for some kind of hint as to what it is exactly that he may or may not be agreeing with, but Francis spares him the need to ask. "We have been talking about this for ages! Can we just sign that treaty already?" Treaty, treaty…there was definitely a treaty mentioned last time he had a briefing with the boss. Something he was not supposed to sign…right! That environmental thing. Oh, they are not going to like this. Alfred sighs inwardly and leans forward. "Uh, actually…we're not signing. You get that, right? I mean, it's not like there's any need for this kind of thing. You are all overestimating this climate business a LOT, at least that's what the boss says, so…yeah, just wanted to mention that. But you others, uh, go ahead!" No big deal, right? They all know that he doesn't believe in any of these ridiculous ideas that have been circling around for quite some time now, so this shouldn't come as much of a surprise. Alfred slumps back in his chair and watches as the others line up to sign. Only gradually does he begin to notice the way nobody will quite meet his eye, the way they exchange glances that seem to speak volumes. Alfred can't refrain from rolling his eyes. So they're angry at him for refusing to sign, never mind, let them be angry for a few hours, let them be passive-aggressive the next few times they meet up and the issue will soon be forgotten.

Finally, blessedly, the conference comes to an end. Alfred jumps up the second Ludwig proclaims that they're done, eager to grab some food and do anything not as mind-numbingly boring as attending a meeting. He decides to wait around to see if maybe somebody wants to come along, but most of the others seem to be in a bit of a hurry, smiling faintly and giving him a brief nod as they rush past him. Just as Alfred begins to wonder if maybe he did something totally inadequate last time he had guests around, Arthur approaches him.

"Heeey man! What do you say, we go out for dinner and watch some television, there's this new show, I swear you're going to like it even though you think you're too good for-"

"Alfred, just briefly, listen. We all knew this was going to happen, so the others have decided to simply pretend it doesn't matter, but let me tell you this: That kind of attitude isn't going to make you popular, you know. I do understand that unlike the rest of us, you don't have to care for friendships and alliances and you're all too comfortable doing things your own way, because, hey, who cares for the rest of the world so long as you got television-". Arthur interrupts himself, staring vacantly for a second before taking a restrained breath. Alfred suddenly notices the other man's tense posture, the way he seems to be simultaneously very angry and very nervous and unthinkingly reaches out to touch Arthur, to do anything that might relax the situation, but he his hand goes through thin air.

"I want you to know that this kind of behavior isn't going down very well with the majority of the nations. They're reluctant to talk about it because they know there's no use in it, that what they say or do has absolutely no influence on you and – even though they would never admit this - they're afraid of your reaction, but I believe you should at least be aware of it."

"I- come on, seriously? First of all, you know I didn't decide on this, even though I'm going to have to admit that I would have done the exact same thing because this whole climate…protection…something is useless. Second, ever since when are people scared of my reaction? I'm really easy to talk to!"

Arthur shakes his head and slowly begins to walk out. Alfred stares at his back, stunned into muteness for the moment. Arthur turns around once more, to apologize, to say that this was his super-weird idea of a joke, to- "I'm not afraid of you, Alfred. You can't scare me", he says firmly, but he doesn't look up as he speaks.

Out of the corner of the eye, Alfred gratefully watches as finally, Ivan, who had been picking up some files from below the table, leaves the room as well. Slowly, he moves back to his chair and sits down, all plans for the night forgotten. Now what was that all about?

At least they aren't ignoring him. Throughout the next couple of days, he has Matthew and Francis over at his house, for business, admittedly, but the overall atmosphere seems fairly pleasant to him. Nevertheless, Alfred is having a hard time keeping the confrontation with Arthur from replaying over and over inside his head. The way he had sounded, one would think Alfred was some kind of monstrous child, too unpredictable to trust, too dense to talk sense into, to dangerous to confront directly. The more Alfred thinks about it, the more frustrated he gets. So what if he's stronger than the others, it's not like he has ever hurt anyone, especially not Arthur who behaved like Alfred had personally sent him anthrax. What a pretentious little twat.

One week later, Alfred begins to get lost in thought whenever he passes a mirror. There is no uncontrollable beast that's staring back at him, it's just _him_. Just the usual, good ol' Alfred. What is it that the others see in him that supposedly scares them so much?

Two weeks later, the fog outside is slowly eating up the world and Alfred is quietly going insane with boredom and an endless circle of recurring thoughts. He wants somebody to talk to, desperately so, but he has reached a point where he is no longer entirely sure who to address. If Arthur was telling the truth, if he was indeed revealing the others' unspoken resentments, nobody is going to talk freely. He sure as hell doesn't feel like calling Arthur to ask him to elaborate on his earlier reproaches and he really doesn't want to pressure Matthew, leaving him with nobody available for conversation.

Alfred is just about to get on the phone to call his boss, which is somewhat pathetic and certainly not very likely to lead to any kind of enlightenment on either one's part, when there is a hard knock on his front door. He all but flies down the stairs, thrilled to have a visitor and determined to invite whoever it is inside for a few hours minimum, pausing only briefly in order to not come across as a complete loser.

He rips the door open with far too much force, beaming happily at-

"Ivan?"

Alfred doesn't manage to hide his baffled stare. The Russian grins at him and gestures vaguely, as if to indicate that he's aware of the exceptionality of his visit.

"May I come in?"

"Uhhm…yeah, sure, I guess…". Alfred steps to the side to let his visitor inside, his previous enthusiasm replaced with confusion and a probably healthy dose of suspicion. He slowly closes the door and turns around to Ivan, whose massive form looms threateningly in the hallway.

"Just go to the left, that's my living room", Alfred mutters, momentarily unsure if the Russian has ever been to his home before. Ivan nods briefly and takes the lead.

There is an almost surreal quality to seeing Ivan placed on his gaming couch just like that, his heavy coat draped over the back in a casual manner. Feeling weirdly self-conscious, Alfred slowly takes a seat in one of his armchairs, sensing that sitting down next to him would increase the awkwardness of this encounter by the tenfold.

"Sooo…".

"I have come here to talk to you about the last meeting."

Alfred does a quick mental calculation of what things Ivan could possibly want to talk about, but he can only think of instances of megalomania like demanding to be put in charge of all future meetings or suggesting that meetings and all the tedious arguments that come with them should be replaced with a somewhat more unilateral and binding approach to making decisions. None of that would explain Ivan's appearance on his doorstep, though.

"Shoot."

"The other nations are afraid of you. They're in awe of your capabilities."

And there it goes again. He may have spent the last two weeks yearning to talk about precisely this matter, but somehow he had envisioned this talk to take place with somebody a little less…less suspicious? Less his former arch enemy?

"You heard what Arthur said to me?"

"I didn't have to hear him in order to realize that. It's very obvious."

Alfred's instinctive reaction is to tell Ivan to mind his own business, but he is too desperate to be given anything that might resemble honest reflection.

"It's not obvious to me. Nothing about me is scary."

Ivan's perpetual smile turns into a somewhat amused smirk.

"You're strong, Alfred. You're more powerful than any of us, and everyone's painfully aware of it. They used to be scared of me, because I was strong and, you might say, hostile. But now that I…now that it's just you, everyone's nervous about your behavior."

"I haven't done anything! I'm doing as I'm told, I'm taking care of what's best for America without harming anyone, just like all the others!"

"Ah, but Alfred, that might change, they fear it will change whenever you refuse to play their little games of cooperation." For a brief moment, Ivan's face takes on an almost wistful expression, a remote yearning for something left unspoken ghosting across his features. "Your potential, Alfred. They fear your potential."

Alfred still isn't sure if Ivan is telling the truth, but some of the things that he observed but never managed to link, the way some agree all too hastily to whatever stupid suggestion he comes up with throughout a meeting, their deliberately controlled reactions to his words, seem to confirm what the Russian describes.

"Why do you tell me that? Why do you want me to know?"

Ivan shrugs.

"You should know you inspire fear in others. It's a useful ability."

"Useful…? Maybe for me, if I was some kind of complete tyrant, but certainly not useful for you?"

"It's fascinating to watch you."

Completely taken aback, Alfred stays silent for a few moments. Ivan rises to his feet and puts on his coat in a quick, graceful motion that seems uncharacteristic for his huge body.

"It was nice talking to you, Alfred. We should do it more often."

Before Alfred manages to focus somewhat sufficiently to react, Ivan has rushed past him. The noise of the other man's heels clacking through the hallway and the following faint noise of the front door tear Alfred from his befuddled stupor. He slowly gets up and steps over to the window, watches Ivan disappear in the pale, twirling November fog.

The next morning, Alfred is unpleasantly woken up by the shrill sound of his telephone. It takes him almost a minute to muster the necessary energy to get up and locate the phone, cursing the inordinate persistency of his boss in the process.

"Hello", he mumbles weakly, not bothering to clear his voice from its evident mid-REM quality.

"Alfred, would you like to meet for dinner today?"

That voice, while definitely not his bosses', sounds distinctly familiar. When he stays quiet for too long, still struggling to produce a coherent thought, the person at the other end of the line speaks up again.

"I would like to continue yesterday's conversation."

Yesterday's conversation? The pizza delivery? No, it begins to dawn on Alfred, there was something else, someone…

"Ivan?"

"Yes. Would you like to meet for-"

"Why?"

It's an impolite question, and if it wasn't so ridiculously early in the morning, Alfred would probably have bothered to come up with a somewhat veiled question, even if it's just Ivan he's talking to, Ivan who undoubtedly doesn't care much for being treated politely as long as he has his way.

"I didn't say all the things I wanted to say. I forgot a few things."

"You can't just tell me now?"

"That would take too long. I would like to have your attention, but I doubt I'll be able to get it over the phone."

This, Alfred has to admit, is a fairly accurate observation of his own behavior. Already he finds himself drifting out, struggling somewhat indecisively against impending mental absence.

"Uhm…yeah, why not. Sure. Do you want to-"

"I'll be over at your house at seven", Ivan declares and hangs up immediately, not bothering to wait for any kind of response, just like old times. Back then, when Ivan and he were at permanent almost-war with each other, the Russian would always finish calls in this fashion, abruptly and as soon as possible.

Does this mean Ivan expects him to cook or at least order in, or will they be going out? Will they just go on discussing Alfred's position in the world or is there something else, some hidden plan that will reveal itself and what does Ivan _want _all of a sudden and _this is really weird_. Then again, Alfred muses dimly as he slowly pats into the kitchen, too confused and alert to go back to bed, it's also exciting, in a borderline-creepy kind of way.

Alfred is tense and impatient all day, wishing his meeting with Ivan to be over long before it begins. Grudgingly, he realizes that he's maybe a bit afraid, just a bit, not really, of what Ivan may want to say, of his simultaneously unwanted but desperately needed, brutally honest assessments. He spends some time wondering if he should maybe try to prepare a meal, but ultimately decides that Ivan is probably aware of his utter inability to produce anything food-like himself and is thus likely to expect take-out or a visit to a restaurant. He tries to determine if this could be considered a formal meeting and if he should dress accordingly, changing a few times before settling on the perfectly banal, everyday attire he put on first in the morning. Almost subconsciously, Alfred asks himself why the possible prospect of having a private talk with Ivan, about more or less private matters, holds such a fascination for him. When Ivan finally arrives, at point seven o'clock, Alfred is half-delirious with anxiety.

The Russian is dressed in what is perhaps best described as a tuxedo, or at least what might have passed as one twenty years ago, in a system thoroughly separated from the rest of the world. At the very least the idea of a tuxedo, its explicit elegance and formality, gets across, leaving Alfred feeling grossly inadequate in faded jeans and a hoodie that may have belonged to Matthew at some point.

"You should have mentioned you meant going out for dinner", Alfred says as a greeting.

"I thought it was obvious", says Ivan, hovering on the doorstep with an atypical kind of uncertainty.

"So, should I try to find something ridiculously black-tie to match your outfit or…"

"Why don't we just go somewhere simple instead, to one of these places you like."

The prospect of eating some cheap fast food together feels decidedly easier than whatever it was that Ivan must have had in mind. Alfred tells him to wait in the entry hall and rushes upstairs to retrieve a jacket. As he rummages through his closet, he wonders about Ivan's quiet acceptance of having his plans overthrown just like that. Definitely not like back in the old days. Have they both become such radically different persons, both left with no choice but to take new positions in a system no longer divided in half?

It's even colder than Alfred had anticipated. He walks quickly, wants to reach the diner as soon as possible to keep his ears from freezing off, but Ivan is clearly unfazed by the freezing temperature.

"Have you thought about what I told you?" Ivan asks, almost stopping entirely as he does so. Only when Alfred doesn't answer and instead motions him to hurry up does he slowly set back into movement, feet swaying loosely at a far too relaxed speed.

"Yes", Alfred says briefly. "Come on, I think I'm seriously risking my life over here, let's get moving."

"Are you cold?"

"_Yes_, are you always this dense? Jesus, I think you used to be a bit faster on the uptaking."

"When we were still enemies?"

"Yeah, I guess…or maybe I've just forgotten. It's been a while, huh?"

"It has", Ivan says, his tone carrying his pleasure at having coaxed Alfred into a conversation so easily, "but it certainly felt adequate to wait until some time has passed before pretending the Cold War never happened, didn't it?"

Alfred turns around, unable to hide his surprise at hearing Ivan address their common past so casually.

His first instinct is to simply change topics, say something like _I thought we were going to talk about my incredible talent at intimidating others and how you feel it might be useful to you,_ but honest curiosity for where Ivan is trying to take this takes over.

"I guess it's more of a matter of remembering all too clearly that it did happen, at least for me. It feels really strange talking to you like that when a few years ago we were still this short of starting a world war." He doesn't mean it as a reprimand and Ivan doesn't seem to take it that way; all he does is nod thoughtfully, as if this was something he hadn't given much thought, a newly opened perspective offering new insights.

The neon signs alongside the road bathe their faces in fluorescence, rendering both nations simultaneously pale and brightly colorful. Ivan's hair reflects the red light of a Coca Cola ad, an image that makes Alfred smile, not condescendingly or with spite as some might expect, but in a bemused, relaxed sort of way.

"I am glad to hear that", Ivan finally says.

"Oh? How does that make you glad?"

"I am not the only one who remembers. Not alone after all with my memories of decades of struggle for power. Doesn't it ever bother you, the way the others seem to have put the last half-century behind so easily? Well, maybe it doesn't matter to you as much as it does to me. You won."

They slowly walk onto the fast food joint's parking lot. Alfred is glad to see they have arrived at their destination and feels grateful for the short distraction of deciding on what they want to eat, taking his time to consider the vast array of suspiciously similarly-tasting meals before settling on the largest. When they both slide into a booth in a dimly-lit corner of the restaurant (if that's what you want to call it), he continues where they left off in the natural fashion that seems to become their standard conversational pattern.

"I won? Do you really believe that?"

"Of course you did. Look at you." Ivan gestures vaguely with a fry in his left hand. "Look at how you emerged from the Cold War and look at me. This is your era, Alfred."

The surreal quality of discussing the aftermath of fifty years of common history for the first time in a McDonald's on a Saturday night doesn't escape Alfred, but he feels oddly comfortable with it.

"Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't realize that, in a way. The boss and his staff are constantly talking about how this is a unique moment in time, how we need to preserve it as long as possible. Is that what you and Arthur mean about the others being afraid?"

"Yes. You see, they may have been afraid of us destroying everything around us in the past, but at least they knew exactly what they had to fear. Everything was set up so clearly, with you on the one side and me on the other. Now it's just you and everyone else is trying to determine where to position themselves in order to protect their interests."

"We used to define the structure of the whole world, huh?"

"We used to define each other", Ivan replies smoothly, with a strangely soft and honest smile that for once actually reaches his eyes. "Now it's just up to you. I wonder, Alfred, what do you want us to be?"

So this at least provides an answer to the question of what Ivan's motive for meeting up is, though there is no real hint as to what he might like to hear as an answer.

"We want you to join us, Ivan! To take part in meetings, to cooperate…the boss is spending quite a lot of money on getting you to-"

"I mean _you_, Alfred. What do you _want_? Do you want us to become closer?"

"We used to be pretty close", Alfred mutters absent-mindedly, "just on a somewhat hostile basis." He notices the Russian's expectant look and shrugs helplessly. "I don't know, Ivan. I really don't. You seem to forget that this is as new to me as it is to you. I- I wish I had someone to rely on. Someone who's not afraid."

"I'm not afraid", Ivan says in a serious tone of voice. "Never was."

"I know."

There are an awful lot of things left unsaid that night. Alfred doesn't get the advice he was hoping for with regard to how to keep the others from fearing him even as he takes on an unchallenged position in the world and Ivan doesn't get the clear answer he was hoping for. Still, they walk the way back in amicable silence and somehow, neither is very surprised when the Russian hugs Alfred as a goodbye, breathing into the smaller man's hair and bringing up one hand to the side of his face for a moment before he walks away in large, brisk steps.

* * *

><p>Uhm. I had originally intended for this to be multi-chap, but when I'd written up to this point I felt like there was no actual need to go on. Or does this feel chopped off? IDK<p> 


	2. dawn and downfall

Thanks to those who reviewed or added this to their favorites!

So, I decided to see if I could come up with something that might pass as a continuation and since it was a lot easier than I had anticipated, I have turned this into a multi-chap story. The Nineties work exceptionally well as a background for Hetalia, in my opinion, so I'll include some more countries whose history fits well into my characterization (also, turns out writing a story with just two characters is kind of difficult), starting with a (possibly uncharacteristically) despairing Gilbert.

Otherwise, will continue Russia/America of some kind. Enjoy!

…I don't own Hetalia.

When Alfred wakes up the next morning, he stares vacantly at the ceiling for about half an hour before he finally decides to get up. Only gradually do the events and thoughts of last night seep back into his mind, where they fail to form a coherent picture of _what the hell was going on_. While he now has a vague understanding of how the others feel about him, he is not exactly sure of what is going on inside Ivan, and even less so of his own feelings. The constant, numb uncertainty of the first months after the end of the Cold War seems to have returned with full force, except this time things are probably not going to conveniently fall into place. On the contrary, they _have _fallen into place already, that's the problem. How can he reassure the others that he really does want to work together, that he isn't going to crush whoever is stupid enough to disagree with him, when they apparently are already convinced that he is this short of becoming some kind of despot? Alfred isn't really surprised to discover that he wants to talk to Ivan again, quite desperately so, which feels odd given that last night was their first civil conversation in an awfully long time. Being this pathetic, he decides as he slowly pats into the bathroom, doesn't quite match up with his new image as ultra-hegemon.

Determined not to come across as a moronic, friendless loser in front of Ivan (who undoubtedly knows quite a lot about being friendless), Alfred is relieved to find a distraction from his dilemma of to-call-or-not-to-call in the form of Gilbert, who calls him just as he is about to have a breakfast that might constitute someone else's rough daily calorific intake.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

Alfred had to deal with Gilbert quite a lot throughout the meetings surrounding the German reunification and had taken a bit of a liking to the boisterous nation, but lost contact afterwards almost immediately. Gilbert rarely shows up at official meetings, his presence neither required (due to Ludwig having taken over all representative tasks) nor, at least in some cases, desired.

"Nothing much, I guess. How have you been, Gilbert?"

"Oh, everything's great. Moving in with Ludwig was hell, he tried to throw away most of my stuff so I had to retrieve it all from the garbage, but we're fine now. Uh, I was wondering, are you busy? Everyone's away at some lame EU conference and I think I'm going to pass out from boredom."

"Why aren't you there?"

This is a somewhat cruel question as Alfred is well aware of the reasons for Gilbert's absence, but in his present state, hearing about somebody else's loneliness feels reassuring. Pathetic indeed.

"Pfff, what would I want there? Seriously, you have no idea how insanely boring these conferences are. Anyway, you up for something?"

Gilbert, Alfred slowly remembers, is impressively insensitive and thus presumably doesn't care an awful lot about how others view him, if he's aware of their perception at all.

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know, something involving alcohol?"

"It's ten in the morning."

"Why don't I just come over to your place and we figure something out there. I'm almost there anyway, so that probably makes sense."

"You come over without even knowing if I'm free?"

"Yeah, like you'd be busy doing anything with your impressive collection of close friends. See you in an hour or so!"

Alfred glares at the speaker for a moment before hanging up. Gathering a second opinion on how to deal with inadvertent intimidation might be a good idea, but Gilbert, who is all for deliberate intimidation if the occasion arises, may not be the ideal choice of advisor. _Then again, neither is Ivan, but you sure listened to him_, Alfred's mind provides almost immediately, but he banishes this thought quickly and returns to breakfast.

Alfred gets dressed resignedly, half-dreading Gilbert's arrival and the inevitable chaos that is bound to trail in his wake. Attempting to lure him into a serious or at least somewhat normal conversation may be a venture doomed from the start, but it's really all he can think of. Maybe they can watch a film, assuming that Gilbert has finally gotten into touch with common Western cinema (Or music. Or fashion. The former nation's knowledge of popular culture had been seriously underdeveloped the last time they met.), and talk a little afterwards. Alfred finds himself oddly curious to hear about how Gilbert fits into the new European environment, especially since technically, he shouldn't even be around anymore. He imagines it difficult to live with somebody as dominant and reserved as Gilbert's brother and briefly tries to envision himself in a similar situation, but the idea of being subjugated, even in such a _right _way as it happened in Germany, feels completely inconceivable. Gilbert didn't sound unsure or afraid though, not afraid of the world, not afraid of him. Maybe it's really not so bad to have him over.

The small German knocks on his door at eleven and greets Alfred with a friendly punch to the side as soon as he comes inside. He looks even more fragile than he used to, small and pale and thin, like a figurine made of ivory, red eyes providing an unsettlingly stark contrast to his translucent skin. If it wasn't for the perpetual smirk marking his features even when he doesn't actually smile, Gilbert would seem almost like a frozen body.

"Would you like something to eat?"

Alfred can't keep the offer from slipping out instead of a proper greeting, the other nation just looks too starved. Gilbert simply rolls his eyes and, when he notices Alfred's encouraging expression, shakes his head.

"Why do people keep doing that? It's not like I don't have any food over at…I mean, Ludwig sure stocks enough to feed an entire army."

The obvious question of why it is then that Gilbert looks like the walking dead is, for the moment, left unspoken. Alfred guides Gilbert inside his living room and fights the déjà-vu of doing the same with Ivan the day before, wondering if maybe he should just invite the whole Eastern Bloc over for dinner to be done with this strange reconciliation-with-former-enemies week once and for all.

"So, I was wondering, have you ever seen Star Wars? Because, if you haven't, you're bound to run into intercultural misunderstandings sooner or later, seriously, that film is common knowledge. Also, it's simply amazing."

Gilbert agrees to sit through a screening under the condition of being provided with drinks of his choice. He scowls at the bowl of chips Alfred brings from the kitchen, but when no further remark on his looks follows, the German relaxes enough to actually help himself to a small handful. The realization that Gilbert is not exactly what one might call a good film watcher doesn't come as much of a surprise; Alfred stoically forces himself to endure the constant supply of an additional audio track filled with mockery and lewd remarks, even when it becomes clear that Gilbert is rooting for the Empire with unsettling enthusiasm. Despite the impressive amount of energy the former nation seems to be able to spare for constantly coming up with new ways of insulting the hero, his overall demeanor is much calmer, more composed than it used to be. Not once does he try to hit on Alfred and while the American certainly doesn't mind this new development, it nevertheless increases his vague suspicion of Gilbert's superficial vigor.

The credits start rolling over the screen and Alfred is about to suggest they watch the other parts another time, not feeling too keen on hearing the numerous things Gilbert undoubtedly would have to say on the familial relations revealed later on, when the small man next to him begins to speak so quietly he almost doesn't catch it.

"Who wins in the end?"

"Uh, are you sure you want me to tell you? It's kind of obvious anyway, I mean, this is a little too epic for having ultimately successful villains, although as you'll see it sure looks like the Empire's going to make it in the second part, but…the rebels win. Yeah. Photo finish."

Alfred grins at him, fully expecting him to launch into a lengthy declaration of love for the Empire and all other things evil, but he doesn't get it. Instead, Gilbert slowly gets to his feet and appears to be heading towards the door for a moment before he stops himself and remains in the middle of the room, awkwardly standing in front of the coffee table and staring out of the window.

"Alfred…why did you support the reunification so strongly?"

"I…wait, what?" Alfred tries to get a clear look at his guest's face, but the shield of almost white hair blocks the view completely. "It was the right thing to do. You belonged together and you had found a way of expressing your wishes, so why not? It was about time."

"The others didn't want it to happen. Not just Ivan, also Francis, Arthur…they weren't sure about it. Not at all."

"Having second thoughts?" Alfred figures that Gilbert must realize that he doesn't actually mean this question, that the German is about to burst into laughter and sit back down.

"Not for the country. You're right, it…was the only right thing to do, the best outcome for all these people. But at some point, we're still separate from what we represent, aren't we? I should be gone, right? My country no longer exists. I should have become one with Ludwig a long time ago, I should no longer even be aware of…and yet, here I am, clinging onto something that isn't mine anymore. Sometimes I think everyone's just waiting for me to drop dead, even him…" Gilbert's voice takes on a strangled quality, as if he was forcing the words past a painful barrier inside his throat.

Alfred gapes silently, still busy trying to trace back their way from Star Wars to existential despair. Apparently, his calm exterior infuriates the smaller man in front of him, because Gilbert takes one brief look at him and, without even shouting something, hurls the chips bowl at his head, missing by a few inches. "What the hell was that for?" He rises to his feet as well, no longer feeling comfortable to watch his guest from the couch.

"What…? Do you have any idea, do you even begin to understand what it's like? To have your smaller brother look at you like you're nothing but a nuisance not even worth dealing with because it's bound to disappear sooner or later? I'm growing weaker by the day, Alfred. All because you were too busy playing hero and villain for a few decades, because you and Ivan thought you had to prove something to the world! You fought your little fight as long as it was fun, now it's over all of a sudden and not once did any of you stop to think about what all of this might mean for those caught in the middle!"

"Gilbert, you can't possibly be serious, you hated Ivan! You hated being under his control, you were so happy to live with your brother again! You got what you wanted! Everyone got what they wanted, except for Ivan and that serves him right for what he did."

"Were you even listening?" Gilbert is shouting now, his eyes a sharp blazing red. "I'm dying! Ever since you ripped us apart-"

"Don't even think about blaming anyone for that. Don't even think about it. That was your own fault, that was Ludwig's fault! And what do you want me to say, anyway? I'm sorry you're growing weaker, I really am, but I'm not going to apologize for supporting the reunification, that's just…you said it. It was the best thing that could have happened to your countries. Your country."

Gilbert is slightly out of breath and his expression is one of exhaustion and despair. "You don't get it. We're not just our country, Alfred. We're more than that, we're entities of our own. What's best for our country is not necessarily what's best for us and even though we have no choice but to do what needs to be done, we still wish for some things to be different, don't we? I thought you would understand. I…" He cuts himself off and sighs. "I think I should go. I didn't mean to say all these things, Alfred. I didn't come over to talk about this, I just wanted some company." He gives a brief smile, but it's a mere shadow of his former devious grins that radiated energy. "Vanishing is harder than I would have thought, one is constantly looking for company to hold onto, for someone real…"

He shrugs. "Take care, Alfred."

There isn't anything to be done or even thought about Gilbert's state, at least not immediately. The whole visit, Alfred realizes idly, lasted less than three hours, leaving him with half a day left to kill. He manages to ignore the voice in his head that keeps whispering _wouldn't Gilbert's visit make an excellent topic to talk about with Ivan _for almost two hours afterwards, keeping himself busy with vacuuming the couch to remove all traces of his guest's outburst and preparing a ridiculously over-sized burger for lunch. Alfred surprises himself by glancing over the documents regarding a symposium on international security while eating. This may not be the kind of serious preparation his boss undoubtedly had in mind, but it's nevertheless an improvement of roughly 200 % in comparison to his usual strategies of postponing and conveniently forgetting until the day of the conference/briefing/whatever has arrived. The topic of NATO expansion has been floating around for quite some time now, in fact ever since the Cold War ended, but apparently it is increasingly becoming a likely option, despite the constant complaints and worries put forward by some people. Alfred himself is fairly convinced it's the right move, even though he realizes Ivan isn't going to be thrilled to hear about it. This, together with the nagging question of what – if anything - should be done about Gilbert, finally passes as an acceptable justification to get in touch with the Russian and Alfred finds himself almost bursting with energy the moment this inner decision is made. He jumps up from the kitchen table to retrieve his phone from the hallway, pausing only briefly in the middle of dialing to ask himself once more why he is so thrilled to talk to somebody so utterly removed from him in so many different ways, somebody he barely knows, at least not very well. He can come up with a decent number of acceptable reasons (_because it's advisable to know what kind of person Ivan is in case he goes back to being crazy, because he knows a lot about being powerful and not trusted, because he may turn out to be a useful friend, because you haven't really talked to him in ages and it's simply intriguing_), but some of his own motives seem to be escaping him, whispering just below the surface of a secluded part of his mind made out of opaque glass. Alfred looks at his reflection in the hallway mirror, but his own eyes hold no additional information, can't provide the enlightenment he is looking for, so he turns around and goes back inside his sunlight-flooded living room to call.

"Da?" The Russian's voice sounds harsh and tense, an awfully familiar tone nothing like the one from last night.

"Ivan? Hey, this is Alfred."

"Alfred! What a pleasure. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you've seen Gilbert lately." The inevitable NATO-discussion is certainly not going to be easy and Alfred feels that he fulfilled his daily quota of difficult situations earlier on, so he decides to save it for some later occasion.

"I'm afraid not. We're not too keen on talking to each other and I do business with his brother only, so there hasn't been any reason to meet him. Have you had trouble with him?" If Alfred didn't know better, that last question would seem almost as an offer to defend him.

"No, no, nothing like that. He visited me today and he appeared to be in a rather bad state, so I was wondering if anybody else has noticed."

"Still not talking to the others? You will not be able to avoid their judgment, Alfred. Sooner or later, you will have to decide on a strategy to gain whatever reputation you consider adequate."

"I…I'm not sure if the others are aware of this, so it might be better if you kept this to yourself, but Gilbert said he's going to die soon. Do you have any idea if that's true?"

"It certainly makes sense. I'm surprised he has made this far and I know I'm not the only one."

Alfred is well aware of Ivan's barely concealed dislike of his former…ally, for lack of a more suitable expression, and is therefore not really shocked at the Russian's completely emotionless delivery.

"Is there any way to stop that process?"

"How should that work, Alfred? His country is gone, his power has vanished. So will he. But let us not talk of such unfortunate, unavoidable things, the decay of others does not make an enjoyable topic."

Ivan's total lack of empathy bordering on malicious glee is not exactly enjoyable either, but Alfred is curious to hear more of what's going on in the other man's mind. "What would you like to talk about, then?"

"Nothing in particular, my friend. I'm afraid I have never liked to speak to persons without being able to see them."

"Would you like to come over, then?"

"Why don't you visit me for a change? You haven't seen my residence in decades, at least not in person, and the photos your intelligence provided certainly didn't do it any justice."

Alfred hesitates. His intuition tells him to _stay the hell away_, but it still fuels on Cold War fears mostly and hasn't taken into account the decidedly civil encounter of last night. Alfred rationalizes that since what Ivan said about his power is true, he shouldn't be stupid enough to actually try anything that might be considered even remotely offensive. Simultaneously he senses that his decision is based neither on intuition nor rationality but on some hard-to-pinpoint trust discovered in the last few days, no matter how unjustified that may be.

"Sure, I'd like that."

"I have to take care of some internal business today, so maybe you would like to pay your visit tomorrow?"

"Sounds good."

There is an awkward moment after that where both seem to be waiting for the other to speak up and say goodbye and when Alfred decides to break their somewhat uncomfortable silence, Ivan interrupts him immediately (_almost as if he'd been waiting so he could do that_) to bid farewell in an absurdly polite, almost pompous fashion.

When the lights are turned off and the seeping darkness begins to lie heavily on Alfred's eyes, some of the more pressing issues of the day finally begin to sneak their way inside the American's mind. It's almost as if that small space between his pillow and the ceiling hosted all vaguely unpleasant thoughts that are pushed away by the daylight, that fail to elicit feelings throughout the waking hours. The memory of Gilbert's unconcealed despair creates a sinking feeling, a deeply felt compassion combined with guilt and a desire to just _do _something, anything to help him. He thinks of the upcoming NATO meeting and how to present himself in order to make a better impression, simultaneously hating the thought of having to behave in a certain way to gain other people's trust. As he finally, blessedly drifts into sleep, his confused mind conjures images of fire and smoke and destruction, but none of it matters because he floats far above all of it, together with the only other one capable of rising above the small, mundane struggles fought by others. Ivan's eyes are fierce, cruel and dangerous, his smile almost blinding as he slowly approaches Alfred, but then the images fall apart and all that remains is the empty, calm dark of the night.


	3. in the heat of the night

You guys, I like this chapter. I actually, genuinely, like this chapter. Since there's nothing quite like overanalyzing wacky source material, I always rather enjoy interpretations of what exactly Hetalia's countries _are_, if they're just representations or if they kind of exist on their own, if their behaviour is determined by actual events, that sort of thing. I've wanted to at least mention my take on it for quite some time now, so here it is, in all its probably overly dramatic, angst-inducing glory. It also includes some actual – albeit minor – AmeRus, which is good, I guess?

Hetalia isn't mine, the opinions expressed by the characters are not my own (not necessarily, anyway). Also, once more, I can't possibly overstress my intense love for feedback of any kind.

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><p>Back then, during the Cold War, Alfred occasionally felt a crushing despair at the apparently indefinite hatred Ivan and him used to harbor against each other. It was like some malignant growth threatening to consume all that was strong and healthy and beautiful about him, a previously unknown gravitational phenomenon that attracted all the unpleasant traits one never knew one possessed until they all appeared inside that impenetrable nest of rage. When the Soviet Union fell apart, all of it withered away in the daylight, all this negative energy no longer needed. That one moment is the only time Alfred remembers he ever felt so light, not even the victory of World War II truly compares because he was well aware of the problems that were about to unfold back then. In 1991, it seemed like he had arrived at a destination previously left unconsidered, the end of history, the end of time. At that one moment, he thought he could see the whole future laid out in front of him, as clear as the present, a constant, calm movement continuing towards the horizon where it met the warm light of a rising sun.<p>

The night is cold and unwelcoming. The path leading up to Ivan's house is covered in a thin, crackling layer of ice, causing Alfred to half-slide the long way through impenetrable woods. As he gradually notices the utter isolation of the Russian's mansion, he feels relieved that he let Matthew know where he was going earlier that day. His brother understandably sounded rather surprised at hearing about these unusual plans for the evening, but being the naturally unobtrusive person he is, he didn't ask for any further details or even explanations. Alfred knows Matthew is probably worried about his behavior in the last few weeks, but he isn't sure how to communicate his confusion and uncertainty, so he decided to leave Matthew in his state of concern for now, until he has fully understood all of it himself.

Whatever elegant edge winter may occasionally display in the beautiful corners of New England is lost entirely in these dark, snow-covered trees. A thin sickle of warm light shines dimly through the trees and Alfred quickens his step at the prospect of finally escaping the oppressive cold. Following the final bend of the path, Alfred stands in front of Ivan's home. It does indeed look nothing like the photos suggested; much smaller, far less pompous than anticipated. The flickering light seeping out of the windows on the ground floor lures him in.

Alfred steps onto the small, wooden veranda and stomps around for a few seconds, attempting to lose at least some of the snow that has accumulated on his shoes and legs during his trip through the ice desert Ivan calls home. The Russian must have been sitting right behind the door, waiting for him, because when Alfred turns around to knock, the impressively decorated door has already swung open. "Ah, Alfred. Right on time."

"Hey, Ivan. You should seriously consider salting the way to your house, if you'd like to have guests in the future."

Ivan lets out a barking sound that sounds almost like laughter and steps to the side to invite Alfred inside. Once the door has been closed, Ivan turns around and slings his left arm around the American's shoulders, pulls him closer. "We will have a good time tonight, yes? Give me your jacket."

Not bothering to wait until Alfred has complied to his order, Ivan spins him to face him directly and unzips his jacket. Alfred is slightly too baffled to react to the way Ivan is basically bossing him around and so simply allows it to happen even though he could very well resist every single one of the Russian's movements. Completely unfazed, Ivan helps him shrug of the bomber jacket and leaves to store it somewhere.

Alfred waits for him to return, slowly shifting his weight from one foot to the other and contemplating the unexpectedly pleasant atmosphere of Ivan's house. Somehow, despite the photographic evidence, he had always envisioned a kind of shack from hell, something simultaneously dangerously high-tech and pathetically underdeveloped. What he finds instead is simply a place that is lived in, a warm, almost cozy house that could maybe do with some more light bulbs and fewer open fire places, though these actually add to the picaresque appeal of it all.

"Nice house", he calls into the direction Ivan vanished to.

"Thank you", Ivan's voice drones right behind him. Alfred jumps around to see the Russian emerge from a door to the side he hadn't noticed before. "I very much appreciate it, coming from you." A vague motion of the left hand indicates Alfred to follow Ivan inside. A dining table much too large for a party of two has been decorated in a manner that makes it appear slightly less oversized, with the only two sets placed in the middle, opposite each other. Watching Ivan from the corner of the eye, Alfred once more can't help but to notice the way their whole interaction has developed a new spin that feels curiously like courtship.

He takes a seat and watches Ivan disappear yet again, this time to fetch whatever cruelty passes as dinner in Russia. While Alfred used to congratulate himself on his indiscriminate appetite, he has recently come to accept the fact that deep down, he is a rather careful eater (in terms of quality, not quantity) and much prefers chemical-ridden fast food over creepily-close-to-natural-state meat stews. Is that what people eat in Russia?

Ivan returns while Alfred is still busy contemplating the various unpleasant possibilities that the evening might hold for him. Hands empty, he sits down at the table and puts on an almost apologetic face. "Food's not ready."

"Oh! Oh", Alfred says, eliminating all traces of relief the second time. He notices the way the Russian is staring at him and raises his eyebrows in what he hopes to be a politely encouraging manner, but Ivan doesn't say a word. "So, uh…" Once more a small pause for Ivan to step in, but no such help arrives. "How are you?" Alfred mentally congratulates himself on his impressive conversational capabilities, but Ivan appears to be pleased with the vague question.

"That is nice of you to ask, my friend. I am fine. I am very busy, as you may know, but tonight I have you as my guest, so I'm fine."

"That's…good", Alfred mutters. "So, things are working out for you?"

"Things?"

"You know…" You know, you're firmly rooted in the international community? All superpower aspirations gone, inner stability maintained? And while we're at it, what the hell is your deal with trying to build some weird kind of relationship with me? All of these are very worthwhile questions, but none seem quite adequate as a conversational opener for a dinner invitation.

"Don't worry, the food will be ready soon."

Ivan gives him a knowing smile, obviously well aware of the questions his guest would like to have answered. Alfred can't suppress a small smile as well, simultaneously surprised and pleased with this new subtlety to their communication. Back then, it was all threats and passive-aggressive behavior and lunacy (on Ivan's part, obviously).

Behind the Russian's back, a large bookcase covers almost the entire wall. Even in the dim light Ivan set, Alfred can make out several large volumes with dates on their back.

"Are these photo albums?"

Ivan turns around and gives the books a surprised glance, almost as if he had entirely forgotten about their existence. He shrugs. "Not just photos, also documents, letters…the kind of things that tend to pile up, you know?" He looks back once more and then starts to smile yet again, clearly having come up with an idea. The Russian turns around so that his back effectively blocks Alfred's sight, shuffling around for a few moments before producing a very familiar photograph.

"Do you remember this one?"

It's the photo from the victory day of the allied forces. Alfred looks at his proud, beaming self holding his closest friends, Matthew and Arthur (come to think of it, are they just not going to talk anymore?). He can remember all too clearly the way it felt like their victory was a tarnished one, the vast gap between him and Ivan more evident than ever, looming threateningly even inside this picture.

"Sure I do."

"It was weird to be standing next to you as your ally when all the time I knew we would be opponents soon enough", Ivan states.

Alfred laughs softly. "Damn right it was."

His memories from this specific period also bring back images of a despaired, pleading Gilbert becoming an involuntary associate of Russia. Gilbert…

"I know you said there was nothing to be done about it, but…is there really nothing we can do to help Gilbert?"

Ivan lowers the photograph and gives Alfred an odd, wistful look. "Why do you even care?"

"Something he said really stuck with me, that despite everything, we're still something of our own, that's…that just feels very true, doesn't it? I mean, the way we deal with each other, not just the two of us, _everyone_ – at some point the matters of our country seem to lose importance and our…our personality starts playing a role, too, right? Do you know what I'm saying?"

What little light is present in the room casts stark shadows onto the Russian's pale features. "Yes. But I'm not sure how any of that is related to Gilbert's fate."

"He _wants _to live! His country may have vanished, but that doesn't mean he wants to do the same. I think he's incredibly happy for Germany, but he'd like to stay around to accompany his country through time."

"Gilbert is the same coward that he used to be. What he wishes to do – and let me assure you the things he told you were not based on loyalty or sense of duty but fear – is completely irrelevant. History hasn't been on his side, so what? It wasn't on mine, either. We all have our paths to follow."

The tone of Ivan's voice is unsettlingly serious, the words apparently concealing some long-harbored despair. Why does he refuse to at least acknowledge the precariousness of his former ally's position? Alfred shakes his head and takes off his glasses to focus his gaze. "You don't really mean that. I can think of instances where your behavior contradicted what was going on outside completely. Even all of this – I may not know what you're trying to achieve, but it's not…political, is it? I get that you don't even want my help, but if you did, you could just spit it out. You know exactly America will help you if you need us. So it's not about help but about something between _us_ – why then is Gilbert not allowed to want something that is not related to the outside, too?"

Ivan takes a breath to answer, but now that he's at it, Alfred can think of plenty more things to say. "I'm not the person the others make me out to be, you know that. Their fear is rooted in the position of my country, but that's unfair because they could still trust _me_, right? They have all known me for ages and now all of that is just gone because you – because Russia is no longer strong enough to restrict America's power?"

"So it's unfair, Alfred, is that your point? Yes, it is. So many things are unfair and none of them can be changed in any way. The others have realized all of this a long time ago, that their behavior always must and always will be determined by the outside. You're just surprised because you identified with America's fight so strongly you didn't even realize it's not always easy to be what we are until now. Deep down, you're already learning it, the scheming, the pondering. You may not like it, but there is nothing, _nothing_ you can do to change the fact that you are now strong enough to determine the fate of almost everyone else. You can't shed that responsibility, you can't avoid their mistrust. You can't save Gilbert. Live up to your potential. That is the only reasonable thing to do."

The ensuing silence hangs in the air heavily. Alfred can feel his insides clenching unpleasantly, as if his body was trying to shut out Ivan's words before they bore into him too deeply. "You may want to check on the food", he mumbles, refusing to establish eye contact. Ivan nods briefly and raises himself silently, rushes out of the room without so much as a glance back. Alfred lets out a deep breath and attempts to put the heavy tension building up inside of him into that small movement of air. A few strands of his hair dance lightly in front of his eyes. He doesn't exactly regret having accepted the invitation, but it is increasingly becoming obvious that the two of them will have to leave the arena of vague reproaches and things left unsaid for a while to settle a few things a little more clearly. The large outline of the Russian's tall figure looms in the doorway, lingering on the doorstep as if Ivan was afraid of moving freely inside his own house.

Alfred forces himself to look up and meet his host's eyes, careful to add just enough softness to indicate a non-verbal invitation. Seemingly lost in thought, Ivan sways inside and lowers himself back onto the chair across the table. "I'm afraid dinner's going to be a little shorter than I had planned. I can still offer you dessert, though, if you like."

"Why am I even here, Ivan? Can you tell me that? What do you want from me? What does Russia need from America?"

For a second, it seems like Ivan is about to rise from his seat yet again, his eyes having taken on a slightly haunted expression, but he hesitates mid-air and, after a few evidently heavily conflicted moments, sits back down. "I invited you because I enjoy talking to you, Alfred. There is nothing more to say about it. I wanted to think back together with you."

"What, because of our happy, harmonious past? Come on, you've been brutally honest so far, why don't you go on with that? I know why, because this is exactly the kind of personal thing you just claimed we shouldn't even be looking for. Russia doesn't want America to meddle with its affairs any more than strictly necessary, Russia doesn't want to become _friends_. You want that. Why?"

In a distant corner of his brain, Alfred notices the distinctive slump in the Russian's posture, something the other would have never allowed himself during the Cold War. Even if he had just been humiliated or defeated, he would always maintain almost comically upright, like the leader of one of his ridiculous military parades.

"I wish I could answer that. I really do." Has his voice ever sounded this strangled before?

Feeling like he has been put in a kind of trance, Alfred slowly inches back his chair and rises. He walks around the table without hurry, stops behind Ivan's chair and puts a hand on the hulking man's shoulder. Ivan doesn't turn around. From the distance, the situation must appear completely static, like an old tableau, but it sure feels rather expressive.

"Alfred…I know how it is. How difficult it is to find a new road to walk. It seems like everyone else is set in their ways and only oneself is struggling to get back on track, doesn't it? Like one has lost all boundaries, all definition. But I don't have the possibilities you have. It is…watching you is like being given a taste of what could have been. You don't appreciate it enough. If you learn to think of yourself as nothing but your country, you could do _everything_."

"But that's not really what you want me to do, is it?"

He's not even sure anymore why he yearns to hear the truth so badly, why he wants to force Ivan to say outright what he hopes to achieve. Ivan laughs voicelessly and finally turns around to face him directly, rises from his seat as well to look down into Alfred's eyes.

"I guess not."

Alfred has occasionally dreamt of Ivan ever since the beginning of their cooperation during World War Two, increasingly so throughout the course of their ensuing rivalry. Most of these nightly visions were nightmarish, fuelled by the constant paranoia the Russian inspired in him, but every now and then, far too seldom to give any reason for worry, they would take on a different quality. He didn't feel particularly ashamed of them, which surprised himself a little, but he reasoned that it was merely a matter of stress, a manifestation of the way few were more frequently on Alfred's mind than his arch enemy. Either way, the dreams had shown a very different scenario than the one at hand, harsher, more violent, but simultaneously also a whole lot easier to understand. Neither of them really initiates the kiss. Out of the corner of the eye, Alfred notices the way Ivan seems to be leaning down ever so slightly and he lifts his head to meet the Russian's intense stare and _somehow_-

Somehow it doesn't even matter. He can feel that he is actually calming down instead of freaking out, can hear the way his breath comes out in fairly even, albeit small, breaths. The whole encounter doesn't last very long, maybe just a few seconds, a brief, barely noticeable brush of lips. Ivan has brought up his right hand to lie heavily on his guest's shoulder. Even so, despite the weight of the other man's hand and despite the way he is lightly held in place against the wall, Alfred is relaxed.

Leaning together like a sunflower towards the warm light that holds its life, they remain still for an indefinite period of time, focused on the rhythmic heartbeat of the other and the feel of soft breaths on exposed skin.

"You understand Gilbert all too well. You understand _me _all too well. Nobody's going to judge you for wanting something of your own."

Ivan sighs heavily; the movement of his chest carries over into his arm, into Alfred's upper body. "It's not something I am used to. Not something that I have ever allowed myself, but…life isn't easy for Russia. Sometimes, it's nice to stop thinking about problems and to be with somebody who is not as…"

"As worried?"

"As torn. Somebody who has nothing to be afraid of. But then…then I remember why there's no point in wanting that, you see? Because it doesn't make any of the problems go away, because it is not what reflects the needs of the nation. We will end up letting each other down, no matter what, because we can never let down our country."

"So where does…_this_…leave us?" It is probably unfair to ask that question of Ivan when Alfred himself wouldn't be able to answer it if he tried. The Russian lowers his head until their foreheads touch ever so slightly and takes in a deep breath. "Right here. It leaves us right here, in the middle of the night."

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><p>I swear, this is the last of these weirdly claustrophobic chapters. Next up, conversations with more than two participants. Yay! Also, more AmeRus, more angst, more <em>everything<em>. c:


	4. waking up

Short chapter is short (and horribly late, I know) DD:

I'll do better next time, seriously.

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><p>The night ends on a heart-thumping note when Ivan motions for Alfred to follow him upstairs, inside what is probably the Russian's guest room. Instead of bidding goodnight, he turns out the light wordlessly and approaches Alfred, who left his glasses on the dining table and therefore has major trouble making out anything besides the pale line of light that illuminates the bed invitingly. Paralyzed partly with surprise, partly with fear and maybe also excitement, he braces himself for whatever is about to follow, knowing fully well that there are several theoretical possibilities that he would most definitely decline (at least for now), but Ivan merely touches his arm lightly and pulls him down onto the soft mattress. They lie next to each other in silence. Alfred holds his breath for what feels like an impossibly long time, waiting for something, <em>anything<em> to happen, until Ivan lets out a faint groan. "Go to sleep, Alfred. You're safe."

"You're not asleep either."

"This is like trying to sleep next to a corpse. It's unsettling. You should really try to relax."

That, Alfred decides, is not exactly a helpful suggestion, especially coming from the one person most likely to kill him in his sleep. After a few moments of deliberately loud, deep breaths and honest introspection, he admits to himself that he hasn't really had to fear being murdered in cold blood ever since the Cold War ended and, well, especially not ever since they shared that weird kind of half-kiss back downstairs. Come to think of it, the two of them lying in bed together, even if fully dressed and not touching except where their arms don't have enough space, might be another hint that the possibility of cruel slaughter may, at least for now, have vanished from their relationship. In all honesty, he was expecting Ivan to be somewhat more…aggressive? Demanding? Not that that would have gotten him anywhere. After a while, a soft, even snore emerges from the Russian's direction, a weirdly calming noise that slowly lulls Alfred into sleep as well. Right before he drifts off completely, Alfred faintly realizes that waking up the next morning might become awkward in a variety of ways, but he feels exhausted and there is nothing much to be done about it anyway, so he finally allows himself to give in to the pressing darkness on his eyelids.

Alfred wakes up to the distant sound of agitated voices. For a brief, wonderful moment he contemplates the possibility that they might not have anything to do with him, that maybe he left the television on, but when they grow louder and more upset, he pries his eyes open with a small sigh. He hoists his chest up and blinks heavily a few times, then reaches out to grab his glasses from the nightstand. When his searching hands fail to locate them, his brain gradually accumulates the power necessary to provide memories from the night before. Alfred is relieved to note the distinct lack of weight to his left, implying that Ivan spared them both the difficulty of waking up next to each other, possibly entangled awkwardly. He forces himself out of bed and carefully approaches the closed bedroom door, curious to find out who his host is talking to. Whoever it is sure has some nerve talking to Ivan like that, loud and demanding. Certainly nobody from the Warsaw Pact, that much is for sure; they all are still understandably nervous whenever anybody so much as mentions Russia. Alfred opens the door, slowly at first, careful not to make any noise, then rips it open without a second thought when he realizes just whose voice is resonating in the staircase. "Matthew?" he calls, rushing downstairs, barely paying attention to his slightly blurred environment. He trips, misses the next step and stumbles into Ivan, whose massive form is blocking the way upstairs.

"Alfred? Are you okay?" His smaller brother's agitated, high-pitched voice takes on a worried quality.

"I'm fine, Matthew", Alfred sighs and pushes Ivan aside casually to prove his point. If Matthew's face is any indication, he must have been worried sick; deep circles around his eyes suggest he hasn't slept the whole night. Alfred slings his left arm around his brother's shoulder and spins the two of them to face Ivan, who is emitting waves of contempt and threat.

"You…what…you weren't answering your phone, so I went to check on you but you weren't there, so I assumed you were…I don't know."

It's perfectly understandable that Matthew, or anyone for that matter, would be surprised to say the very least that Alfred gets invited to the Russian's home for dinner and chooses to stay the night. Hell, Alfred himself had been expecting the whole thing to be some kind of elaborate trick; Matthew had probably been preparing himself for the gruesome sight of at least one corpse.

"I'm fine, Matthew."

Matthew slumps slightly and sends Alfred a half-hearted glare. "Yeah, I can see that."

Ivan has remained on the stairs, watching the two of them with barely concealed frustration. "You will probably get going now, I suppose", he says, discomfort evident in his voice.

Alfred lets go of his brother and shrugs vaguely, apologetically. He wouldn't be able to say how exactly he wanted this morning to unfold, but this kind of abrupt and more than a little uncomfortable departure certainly isn't what he envisioned. "I, well, yes, I should get going. I just need to fetch my glasses", he mutters as an afterthought.

"In the living room", Ivan says with zero inflection. Alfred rushes off, unhappy to leave Matthew and Ivan like this. It doesn't take long to locate his glasses, but when he returns to the hallway, Matthew is hissing at Ivan in restrained agitation. "…don't know what you think you're doing, but it's not going to work. Whatever ridiculous mind game you're trying to play here, we'll uncover it. He could _crush _you, I hope you're aware of that." Alfred stops himself, weirdly curious to watch the scene unfold. Ivan is at the much smaller nation in two, maybe three strides, much faster than one would have expected based on his figure. Matthew can barely offer any resistance against the Russian as he is forced against the wall behind him.

"Hey!" Both of them flinch at the sharpness of his voice and turn towards him. Matthew somehow manages to look simultaneously relieved, confused and hurt, whereas Ivan's eyes are completely hard with anger. "Let him _go_."

Ivan steps back, arms raised to indicate harmlessness in a manner as exaggerated as possible. Alfred grabs Matthew's left arm and rips the door open. "Go. I'll be right there. _Go._" His smaller brother glances at him once more, but he obeys and leaves the house without another word.

"Alfred, I-"

"Watch it, Ivan. If I see something like that _ever _again – careful. You should really be careful."

"I'm sorry", Ivan says and had the situation been any different, Alfred would have instantly recognized the exceptionality of that utterance and the heartfelt regret that seems to accompany it. The way things are, all he can think of is how closely the situation from a few seconds before matched the fearful visions he used to have. He hesitates for a second, half expecting Ivan to delve into a lengthy explanation, but no such thing happens. Alfred shrugs helplessly and exhales heavily. "We…I don't know. I guess we'll be in touch."

The Russian answers with a noncommittal nod to the side and moves forward to hold the door open for his guest, who rushes through so quickly it seems like he is fleeing from some unseen danger.

Alfred doesn't comment on the fact that it's _his _car that's waiting for him at the end of the narrow gravel road that leads up to Ivan's house, even though he can't remember allowing Matthew to use it freely. His brother has taken a seat on the passenger side, fondling the keys absent-mindedly and humming to himself in a decidedly off-key fashion. Alfred extends his hand wordlessly and the keys get passed over. He puts the key in the ignition, but doesn't turn it.

"So", says Matthew after a while, when it becomes obvious that there is no way around leading this conversation right here, right now.

"So." Alfred makes sure his voice is harmlessly affirmative.

"Did you have a nice time, then?"

Alfred knows fully well that his brother is not to blame for any of the events of this morning, but he sure doesn't feel like making this easy for him regardless.

"Yup. Nice evening. Ivan's a great cook, wouldn't have expected that."

Matthew shifts uneasily in his seat. "So you ate dinner, and then you…slept over."

Despite the discomfort of earlier, Alfred has to laugh. "Matthew. First of all, just _ask _what you want to know. The answer is no in any case."

"Oh." Matthew lets out a small, relieved laugh of his own, still not quite capable of meeting the American's eye. "I…I guess I'd just really like to know why? I mean, you saw him right then, he's just…the same old lunatic he used to be, you know? Makes me wonder what he's up to, that's all."

Alfred turns to face Matthew until the other finally looks at him. "I can take care of myself pretty well, you know. Anyway, this doesn't have anything to do with…politics. We're just talking." The look on Matthew's face has incredulity written all over it, but he doesn't voice it. "I suppose I was just a bit worried because of the way you'd been acting like these past few weeks. Don't tell me I was imagining that, you were nothing like your usual self, all calm and…I don't know. Introspective maybe?"

Alfred laughs voicelessly and looks at his brother with affection. There is something truly calming about knowing that even despite everything, despite all his worries, some things remain the same, clear constants in an ever-changing world - all the better if it's something as agreeable as having someone who really cares.

""Yeah, I guess I was. You know…something Arthur said to me a few weeks ago had me thinking quite a bit about where I stand, who I am…all that deep stuff. It just helped to have somebody to talk to, even if it's somebody as weird as Ivan."

Matthew stays silent for a weird, tense moment, in which he seems to be scrutinizing the other's words and posture, as if to pass some definite judgment. "You didn't want to talk to me."

"No." There are various reasons for why this was – and still is – the case, but Alfred is not sure that it would be wise to share them just now. He shrugs in what he hopes to be a nonchalant gesture. "Sometimes it's best to take on an outside perspective."

Matthew nods, expression restricted to a carefully neutral, almost blank smile. Alfred starts the engine and is, for the moment, engrossed in the task of manoeuvring his enormous vehicle through the narrow woods that encircle Ivan's home. Only when they hit solidly paved concrete does he relax enough to continue their conversation.

"So that's why you wanted to talk to him. But doesn't this whole business raise the question of what exactly _his _motivation is for…whatever it is exactly the two of you are doing?"

His smaller brother is very clearly trying to be calm and rational and, above all, non-judgmental, but the effort he evidently has to put into retaining that façade is unpleasant to watch. Alfred can't think of any way to offer relief, though, so he decides to limit himself to answering Matthew's question as truthfully as he can.

"Sure does. I don't know. Well, I mean, I do know, he told me a few things, but…yeah. I guess I get what you're trying to say. Doesn't exactly sound like good old Ivan to develop a new-found interest in all things America, huh? Although – and I get you probably don't want to hear this, but since you asked, after all – the way we talked didn't exactly sound like death threats and murder and, well, he kind of had the opportunity to kill me in my sleep and didn't."

Matthew blinks heavily and keeps his eyes fixed on the flawlessly straight road that lies ahead. "Okay, okay…I thought the answer was no."

"Huh?"

"Just now, you said…about, uh, sleeping over and…"

"Matthew, don't make this hard. It's none of your business, anyway, but _no_, absolutely nothing happened. Hell, I shouldn't even have to explain myself like that. I…tell you what, I'll be careful. I know that there's probably some kind of catch to Ivan's, uh, interest, but since I really don't feel like discussing this with you, just leave it to me, okay?"

"It all just seems very unnatural for both of you", Matthew states quietly..

Alfred feels immensely relieved when the door finally closes behind him with a small click. The journey home was far more strenuous than trips in accompaniment of his brother usually are. Slowly, like caught in meditation, he takes off his coat and stuffs it in the hall closet. The silence of his house that felt so oppressive mere days before now seems rather pleasant. There hasn't really been anything much to catch his attention - not just factually but also emotionally – in a few years now, so that his encounters with Ivan and Matthew have an unusually exhausting effect on him. Alfred steps into the kitchen and starts boiling water for coffee. As he waits for the plate to heat up, he idly thinks of Ivan and what he may be doing right now.


End file.
